For Zoe
by All-Knowing Alien 2
Summary: Basically, Christmas happy times, written for my Zoe. Arthur/Eames. Fluff.


Arthur didn't usually resort to whining. He wasn't whining now. Absolutely not.

"Stop whining, Arthur."

He wanted to snap, "I'm not _whining_", but all that happened when he opened his mouth was it shutting again and his teeth chattering. Why, oh, why was he even here? What had possessed him to agree to Eames' idiotic request to venture out of the flat? (He seemed to vaguely remember handcuffs involved.)

"Oh, darling, see what happens when you're as thin as a rake? You really need to eat more." Eames seemed to think that the best way to reinforce this was to somehow get his hand on the inside of Arthur's black coat and pat his ass companionably.

"_Eames_," Arthur warned through clenched teeth. His cheeks had warmed, which was both a good and bad thing; good because he was freezing, bad because it meant that he was actually losing heat.

"Yes?" was the answering, unrepentant drawl.

"Remove your hand. Now." Every word was clipped and precisely pitched not to carry – not that there were many people on the street. And they were smart not to be. So. Fucking. Cold.

"You're such a spoilsport. I rather like your bum." Even so, he obediently removed his hand (after a parting squeeze), but stopped Arthur so he could button his coat.

Arthur slapped his hands away. He wasn't a child, and he said so to Eames.

"Yes," Eames said, looking ever so slightly worried. "But I thought you'd prefer I do it so you could keep your hands in your pockets."

Damn him. Damn him to heck. Because his fingers _were _now freezing and it was all Eames' fault because – because everything was, okay? "Let's just get to the café."

"Alright, alright." Eames extended a hand, and Arthur could see him pause, just for a moment. Then the moment passed, the forger shrugged a little and placed his hand squarely in the middle of Arthur's lower back, just as he'd originally wanted to.

Arthur found it easier not to protest.

OoOoOoOoOo

The café, as promised, was small and quaint. Arthur let Eames do the ordering, because apparently he knew the lady behind the counter and there was a lot of 'love's and 'my Johnny's and 'I haven't seen you for ages!' et cetera, et cetera. Arthur didn't want to socialise, especially with someone this exuberant at this time of day. He wanted his coffee, and nothing else.

A plate of waffles, covered in a light dusting of powdered sugar and absolutely slathered in honey and strawberries, appeared in front of him. Eames plopped into the seat opposite, the table so small that their knees bumped each other.

The point man stared at the plate for a couple of moments, before deciding that, no; he wasn't suffering from caffeine-withdrawal-induced hallucinations. He looked up. "I wanted coffee. Just coffee."

"It's on its way. It's just that Delilah had these fresh from the kitchen and I insisted you needed it."

"Except I don't need it." Too much sugar. "I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. You never eat breakfast, Arthur. Normally I'd let it slide, but you were shivering today. Eat. Please."

Arthur sighed. Eating this plate of what he would call embodied diabetes rather than breakfast would do absolutely nothing other than make Eames happy – which was precisely the reason why he picked up his knife and fork.

Not that he'd admit it.

His tastebuds were in no way used to all the sweetness in the first bite he took (and the second, and the third, and so on and so forth), because as previously stated, he had only coffee for breakfast. And even though his palate was more sophisticated than the average man – when time and circumstances permitted, anyway – he did not indulge in desserts and sweets. He had a figure to maintain.

Eames snatched a strawberry off Arthur's plate, and bit into it. The man was obscene – and Arthur was almost completely sure that this time it wasn't deliberate, that it was just his nature to show off his assets unconsciously. The way his lips closed around the fruit, the way he slurped at it so no juice could run out of it, the way he licked his fingers afterwards. Arthur choked.

Eames looked up and smirked at him.

Without missing a beat, Arthur said, "Where's my coffee?"

OoOoOoOoOo

"You know, it's a good thing you didn't follow us into the third level during the Fisher job."

Arthur shot a sidelong glance at Eames. "Why? 'Cause I saved all of you by figuring out how to drop you in zero-G?"

"Yes, darling," was what he said, but Arthur knew it contained a 'I could've figured it out, too', and it irritated him because he knew that it was true.

Eames continued, "But that's not what I meant. If you'd come down to that level you'd have frozen to death and everything would've gone down the drain."

Arthur rolled his eyes. They'd finished breakfast (or, Arthur had had his coffee and Eames his disgusting black-tea-with-lemon, and they'd shared the waffles between them) some time ago, and were walking back to Eames' flat. "That's why I didn't go. I hate cold."

"And, yet, here you are."

Arthur made a noncommittal noise, but didn't really reply. He avoided Eames' eyes.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"…why are you here?"

"Because I bought tickets and got on the same flight as you, idiot."

"That's not what I mean." Eames was completely serious, and it didn't sit well with Arthur. There were very few times he'd seen the forger like that – oh, he'd seen Eames angry, and frustrated, and tired, but there was always an innate _Eames-ness_ about him, always that bit of humour. It wasn't there now.

"Then what do you mean?" They were almost at the flat, a few more steps to the door of the building, and seconds away from warmth. Oh, blessed warmth.

Suddenly, though, he was prevented from moving forwards at all. Arthur looked down to see fingers gripping the sleeve of his coat. He looked up at Eames with a disapproving frown. "What?"

"You hate the cold."

"Yes."

"You hate being cold."

"_Yes_," Arthur bit out impatiently.

"But you agreed to come here with me. Even though I told you we'd be arriving in full blown winter."

If there'd been blood in his face, it would have drained away by now. Arthur narrowed his eyes to cover whatever reaction he might have possibly let slip (not that he would have let slip anything, but best err on the side of caution). "Can't we have this conversation inside?" _Where it's warmer?_

"No." Eames' voice was cold, colder somehow than the biting wind, and it made a chill run up Arthur's spine. "Tell me, Arthur."

"There's nothing to tell. I have no where else I want to go. I wanted a change of scene."

"That's not it, is it?" Eames pulled slightly, forcing Arthur a step forward – they were well within each others' personal space now. There were people looking curiously at them, like mildly suspicious projections.

Arthur focused on glaring at the stubble on Eames' left cheek. Not the soft puffs of breath washing over his face and smelling faintly of honeyed strawberries. Not that.

"Arthur. You know I'd have agreed to go wherever you wanted. Anywhere in the world. But why did you –"

"Because I wanted to make you happy, alright?" he snapped. "I've never been to your hometown, and you wanted to show it to me, and I wanted to –" Arthur broke off as soon as he saw the lip twitch. "You _knew_!"

"Yes, darling. I did." Eames' fingers released their death grip on Arthur's expensive leather coat and slid down to encircle his wrist.

Arthur only allowed it because Eames' fingers were blissfully warm. Really. "_Then_?" _What was all the drama about_?

"Just wanted to hear you admit it." Eames thumb seemed to rub the skin at the back of Arthur's wrist almost unconsciously.

"You could've done it inside."

"Oh, no, no. I wanted to see you squirm. I mean, I will see you squirm inside, later, but that's a different thing." He grinned wickedly, and his right arm came up around Arthur's waist to pull him close.

"Fuckhead." There was no venom in the epithet whatsoever, and it came out far too breathy for Arthur's liking, because the feeling of Eames' hard (and warm) body against his was too _nnnggh_ to ignore.

"Mmm. Fucking, and then head. You do have good ideas." Eames swooped down suddenly, his lips meeting Arthur's, and his tongue sneaking into Arthur's mouth and tracing the roof of his mouth, and Eames' large hand was on his ass (wait, he hadn't noticed that his coat had been unbuttoned _again_), and there were people looking but _fuck_ if he cared.

When they parted, panting and breathing in waffle-air, Arthur was still in Eames' arms and the people around them were actually steadfastly not looking in their direction (except for a pair of girls down the street, who were holding hands and cooing at the two men, but they weren't noticed by our heroes). Arthur's hands had settled on Eames' chest, as if to push him away – though what he wanted to do was anything but – and his lips were tingling and his face (and his chest) were warm. He wasn't smiling.

"Merry Boxing Day," Eames said, stupidly, inexplicably, and Arthur wanted to hit him, except that he was actually looking into Eames' eyes now, and. Well.

"Inside," he growled. "_Now_."

Eames was only too happy to comply. After all, that set of handcuffs needed to be broken in some more.

OoOoOoOoOo

Written as a Christmas present for my beloved Zoe. My first Arthur/Eames, as it turns out.

I don't own Inception or anything associated with it.

-Anila.

(Reviews are love.)


End file.
